Thursday, February 3, 2011

A Very Strange Dream

"Start digging, you miserable sack of slime", he bellowed at me. I had been out in the freezing cold and he'd been tormenting me for so long, that I had lost all track of time. I'd had enough. A white hot flame of anger ignited within me and I snapped. I threw the shovel down, turned around and vented my anger at him.

"I'm not going along with this", I screamed. "I bought the shovel for you because I needed a new one anyway. And I watched Con Air six times in a row with you because I thought that there just might be some kind of cosmic significance that I had overlooked the first two dozen times I saw it, but digging in the snow for some long dead folk singer's rainy day craft chest is where I draw the line!"

I could tell that, beneath his stone-faced exterior, the ghost of John Malkovich was not at all pleased. He nodded to himself and calmly issued yet another threat. "If you continue to refuse to help me, I'll have no choice but to keep tormenting you until you end up being fitted for a straight jacket and thrown into a padded cell.And then, I'll torment your children. And your childrens' children. Whatever it takes, I'm going to find the lost treasure of Burl Ives so that he and I can both move on to the afterlife."

I brushed him off and scoffed. "You're not even real!"

"Then why are we having a conversation?" asked the ghost John Malkovich.

I thought about it for a moment. It was a good question. After a few moments of pondering, I came to a terrifying realization. "Okay, you're real in the sense that I perceive you as real. But you're not a ghost. You're most likely the result of a few clusters of blown neurons. I must have thrown a clot or had a minor stroke or something. Basically, you're just a figment of my imagination". I turned to walk away from him, hoping that the ghost of John Malkovich would just fade out of my brain.

Even with my backed turned on him, I could sense his sinister smile curl upwards like a slice of bacon cooking on a newly greased frying pan. "Could a blood clot do THIS?" he yelled as he lept toward me and bit into the back of my leg.

I awoke in my bed, covered in sweat and screaming in pain from the worst charlie horse I had ever felt.

2 comments:

"And I watched Con Air six times in a row with you because I thought that there just might be some kind of cosmic significance that I had overlooked the first two dozen times I saw it, but digging in the snow for some long dead folk singer's rainy day craft chest is where I draw the line!"